


Parallels

by Macx



Series: Denuo [87]
Category: CSI: NY
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He knows I love him!" he protested, feeling unwell. This was getting too emotional now, too personal.<br/>"Really?" She cocked her head. "That's why he looks like a lost puppy sometimes? Think about it, Mac. I know you're not a big talker, but neither is he, and there's no Claire to kick you stubborn hard head into realizing what you feel. This is Don, not her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallels

 

 

It had been a routine case. Rather straight-forward and without any doubts as to who had killed a nineteen year old student in Central Park. There had been so much damning evidence, Amy Schneider hadn't even tried to deny it. She was even proud of it. Jennifer Peters had taken her place on the cheerleader team and she had had to go.

Mac could only shake his head at the human notion to take a life for such a stupid jealousy. He had worked this case with Hawkes and Flack had been the detective on site. They had been efficient and fast, and two days after the murder the DA was charging Amy with first degree murder.

"Here's the file," Don said and dropped the folder onto his desk.

Mac nodded his thanks, already hip-deep in a new case.

"New one?" the detective wanted to know.

"Yeah. Dead body of an old woman, found in an empty apartment in Brooklyn. Looks like she's been dead for a while, and she was the last tenant of the place, but moved out over a year ago."

He looked at his lover and found there were tired lines around his eyes, but no dullness, so it didn't alarm Mac too much. Don was sleeping better, but they didn't spend every night together, so it was a gamble how well the younger man slept on those nights. It had been two weeks since the weekend at the lake and Mac was still trying to gain a footing when it came to his lover's health. Not just the physical health, but also his mental one.

"Tough one."

"Yeah."

Mac hesitated, then caught the blue eyes and hoped his expression brought across the question he wanted to ask. Don gave him a little smile.

They were interrupted by someone knocking on the glass door and pushing it open.

"Am I interrupting?"

Dr. Sid Hammerback, Chief Medical Examiner, shot Mac a quizzical look.

"No, Doc, it's all right."

"I just wanted to drop off the file on your apartment victim. I was on my way out," he added in ways of an explanation. Hammerback rarely dropped off autopsy reports in person. "Early day."

The beep of Flack's cell interrupted and he quickly checked the message. "Gotta go," he only said. "See ya, Mac. Doc." He nodded at Hammerback, then left.

Mac watched the retreating form of his lover closely and made a choice.

“How is he, Sid?” he asked softly.

Hammerback’s head whipped around, but Mac pretended to ignore the sharp glance that was directed at him. They had never talked about the fact that Hammerback most likely had recognized him the second they had met. There was a sharp intake of breath and Mac knew he was being scrutinized by the man.

“The energy lines are fine, energy flowing freely. There’s a little distortion around the scar in the abdomen, but that’s to be expected. But that’s not what you want to hear.”

It wasn’t a question and Mac didn’t bother answering. Hammerback sighed.

“His aura could be better. Much better, to be precise. Something’s leeching at him, eating him, but not on the physical level. Whatever’s going on, he’s not getting help. I assume… sleep pattern disturbed, eating habit not as it used to be, spacing out more than before… I’d say he’s lying to you about something, too. Satisfied?”

Mac turned and nodded.

“Thanks, Sid.”

The eyes that met his were glacier cold.

“You’re welcome. Never ask me again.”

*

Mac Taylor still remembered the day he had first walked into the morgue, meeting the new and hopefully permanent replacement for Sheldon Hawkes. After Hawkes's request to transfer into the field, even accepting a cutback in pays, there had been several interim MEs. Dr. Evan Zao had been the longest on the job, but when he had been offered a job as head of the Forensics Science Lab in San Francisco, he had moved there. Sid Hammerback had been Zao's replacement, the new Chief Medical Examiner.

Mac had entered the morgue because of he had wanted to know about the victim of a shooting, and when he had laid eyes on Hammerback, he had been surprised. Not because he registered a paranormal, but what kind of paranormal he registered.

Seekers were rather singularly talented. He couldn't do magic with his abilities; all they did was tell him if the person he was looking at, talking to or approaching was a paranormal. It took some training and willingness to understand these abilities for a Seeker to differentiate between paranormals. Each registered differently. Mac was a perfectionist in all his areas of expertise, and he was very good when it came to determining what he was looking at.

Their eyes had met over the body of a young woman who had been found shot to death in an alley, and in that moment Mac had understood that he had been recognized as well. Those sharp eyes had met his for a whole second, then Sid had turned to the victim and Mac had asked the questions that were foremost on his mind concerning his case.

Nothing else was said about what each man had seen in the other.

Until today.

Mac hadn't been able to stop himself from asking. He worried too much, he was too protective, and he knew Don was hurting. Sid's words had confirmed his suspicions, but he wondered if Flack truly lied to him or simply omitted the truth.

Probably the latter.

Like himself. Don Flack was used to dealing with problems on his own. He didn't turn to someone else to cry his heart out. With the expectations weighing on his shoulders, with the history of his family, he couldn't be anything but a strong man. He had made a fast career already, a young detective, first grade. His crime solving rate was excellent and Mac knew the higher ups registered it.

Flack sr. was a highly decorated police officer, so his son wouldn't go and confess to a weakness, to nightmares, to psychological problems.

Mac understood only too well.

They were so much alike.

Turning back his report, Mac wondered about the hostile reaction from Hammerback. And for the first time he let the topic of what a healer was doing as a Medical Examiner consciously rise to his mind.

* * *

Mac wasn't a stupid man. He was actually quite intelligent and very observant, whether it was on a crime scene or in his lab. So it didn't pass him by when Stella Bonasera was giving him more than one narrow-eyed, disapproving look over the next few days. They didn't work the same case, but whenever they ran into each other, there was this expression.

Finally, with both their cases solved and the team having a moment to take a breather, Stella cornered him in an empty break room. Mac was drinking a soda and reading when she walked in, hands on her hips, giving him this Look that told him he had messed up somewhere, big time, and she was either going to kick his butt or rip his head off..

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"You can help yourself and finally open your eyes, Mac."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don."

He frowned. "What about him?"

"You don't even notice!" she accused. "You are in a relationship with the man and you don't notice how much he is hurting?"

"Stella…" he started, feeling unwell discussing his private life in such a public place.

Stella Bonasera was a very direct person, with him, with others, and she was also protective of those she called friends. It was one of her good traits, that loyalty, and it was something that was now directed at Mac. He looked at a very determined woman.

She huffed. "Don is a good friend and I like him, but I can't stand by watching you destroy something that took you long enough to even confess to!"

"What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Men! Blind as mice. I know you took a weekend off after the Pyre case, but did you ever talk? No, of course not," she answered her own question. "Because you two are men. You are too much alike. You don't talk about emotions, you assume. And you know what they say about assuming?"

He grimaced. That was a well-known phrase. Assuming makes an ass out of u and me.

"That boy is unsure, Mac. Unsure of where this is going."

"Stella…"

"Have you ever told him how you feel?" she demanded, relentless.

"Yes, Dr. Bonasera, I did," he sighed.

Stella could be quite… firm when it came to people she liked and protected. She was passionate, she had a temper, and she and Don were friends. The incident with Frankie had fused that friendship even more tightly. As proud as Mac was of the tight bonds between the members of his team and their link to the PD, now it came back to really kick him.

"When?" she asked.

Mac frowned. "When what?"

"When did you tell him?"

Mac frowned more and she sighed deeply.

"Probably when you made your move on him, right? Months ago, Mac? Months? Don isn't Claire! He isn't outspoken and emotional. He is a man, like you, and he hides what he feels."

"Since when did you become our personal shrink?" he asked, raising his brows.

She mirrored the expression. "Since you're starting to tear apart what you both need, Mac Taylor. You love him and you are not telling him. How do you think he feels?"

"He knows I love him!" he protested, feeling unwell. This was getting too emotional now, too personal.

"Really?" She cocked her head. "That's why he looks like a lost puppy sometimes? Think about it, Mac. I know you're not a big talker, but neither is he, and there's no Claire to kick you stubborn hard head into realizing what you feel. This is Don, not her."

"I know that!" he snapped, suddenly angry. "I don't see Claire in him!"

Her expression softened. "I know that, you know that, but does he? Does he know where he stands? That he isn't just something to pass a few months with? Use your head, Mac. You're a good criminalist. Follow the evidence."

And with that she was gone, leaving a startled, bemused, but also thoughtful Mac Taylor behind.

* * *

Stella's rather outspoken words had left Mac thoughtful and brooding. He had used the time it took for an analysis to be completed to think about what she had said, and the more he analyzed his relationship with Don Flack, the more he saw the little cracks and tears forming.

He had said the important there words once before.

I love you.

He had said them months ago, in Don's apartment, looking at the confused, frightened and still so very much injured man. He had told his lover he didn't mind the scar, that he loved him as he was, with every part. It had been the truth, but he had never repeated those words.

Those all important words.

And Don had never really said them back. He had only confirmed them with a 'yes' when Mac had asked him if he loved him.

In all the time they had been together now, neither man had spoken about his emotions like this again. Mac showed what he felt with every kiss, but he knew how important words were. And Flack… something in his lover was still hesitant to accept that this was for real.

But why?

Why did he doubt?

'Don isn't Claire.' Stella's words. No, he wasn't Claire. Claire had been an out-going, open personality. She had complimented Mac in a way that Don couldn't. Not because he was a man. He was just as emotionally locked up as Taylor himself. Claire had spoken about what she felt; Don never lost a word. Claire had been forceful and dynamic; Don was waiting, as if dreading what action on his part would bring.

So he doubted this was for real, Mac thought. He doubted this relationship.

Had he planted that doubt? Mac had told his lover what he felt, at least in his words, and that he wanted him. He still remembered Don's surprise, as if the younger man hadn't really ever expected it. And despite the words, he still didn't.

Taylor sighed. Great. He wasn't the most romantically inclined person in the book and he remembered all his rather spectacular goof-ups and mistakes from wooing Claire. Then there was the fact that wooing was probably not what Don wanted. He wasn't a woman and wouldn't take well to the idea that Mac might see one in him.

Not that Mac did. He was very much aware that his lover was a man. He had fallen in love with that man.

He had to do something.

But what?

* * *

It took some serious thinking and three days of gathering his courage to confront Don. In those days he had watched his lover more closely than ever and Mac had seen a lot of what Stella claimed was going on. Don was passionate, yes, but also insecure. He seemed to step back and wait, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It had to stop, Mac decided, and it had to stop soon.

Neither was emotionally that firm to suffer much longer. Don's trauma was always in the back of his mind, and Mac couldn't but look at the scar when his lover was sleeping, aware of how much he could lose, had nearly lost.

I'm not going to lose you. Not over this.

Not over being unable to say what he felt.

When he had, in addition to everything else, discovered that Don had canceled his continued therapy sessions, Mac had known what Sid had meant when he had said Don lied to him. Flack had made the required therapy sessions with a police psychologist, but afterwards he hadn't come back. And he needed them, Mac knew. He would be the least to joyfully go to a psychologist, but Don's trauma wasn't just a shooting or a harsh arrest. It was a near-death experience.  
   
 

He chose a quiet evening in Don's apartment for the attempt to tell Flack how much he meant to him. There was no bouquet of roses, no candle light dinner, no soft music in the background. It had been a normal evening, with both of them unwinding from the day, having lasagna, sharing couch space. When Don had gone to put the dishes into the dishwasher, Mac got up and decided that it was now or never.

And he had only once been this nervous, and that had been when he had first asked out Claire for a date. Well, and much later when he had asked her to marry him.

"Don?"

Mac's quiet voice alerted Flack to something going on with his lover and he frowned.

"I'm not good at this," Mac said softly. "Claire always told me I'm abysmal when it comes to emotional matters."

Don's brows lowered. "What…?"

Mac raised a hand. "Lemme finish. If I can't, this won't come out at all. For Claire, I once tried flowers and it went totally down the wrong end. I messed up." He inhaled deeply. "You're not a replacement for my wife, Don. I hope I never made you feel like it. You're completely different… and what I feel for you is different…" Good god, he was stuttering.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small box.

"Wow, Mac, wait… what…" Don started to protest, eyes wide.

"I'd like you to have this." Taylor held out the box. "I realize it should have happened sooner, but I never gave it much thought. Until now."

"Mac, what's going on?" Don demanded, sounding nervous.

"Please?"

Flack took the box.

"Open it?" Mac suggested.

He did. And stared at the contents. And looked at his lover. Mac smiled, unsure, feeling even more nervous.

"It should have happened sooner," he repeated. "I never realized how much time we spend here, only that it started after you were released. We always came here. We never went to my place."

Don stared at the key again, the key to Mac Taylor's apartment. He had never been there. They had never spent a night in Mac's bed. It had always been Don's place. Mac didn't know why. Maybe it was reluctance on his part to confess to what this had become. Maybe having Don in his bed would seal something that had started so long ago, would close a chapter of his past. The bed wasn't even the one he had shared with Claire. Most of that furniture had been sold with their place. Mac had moved not long after his wife's death, unable to live in a place she had decorated, had lived in, breathed in… where he knew her soul was in every little piece of decoration.

His new place was his own. Not really bachelor, but also not widower. Still, he had never invited Flack to have a drink, dinner, or sex. It had always been Don's place. Always.

It had to change.

"W-why?" Don stuttered, clearly aware of the impact.

Mac closed the distance, trapping the box between them, and kissed his lover gently. "Happy anniversary."

"Anniversary? What anniversary? We haven't.." He stopped. "And since when are you such a romantic?"

The older man grinned. "First of all, I can be romantic. I just need about a year to work up the courage to do something like this. And second… it's been a year since… Lessing. I wanted to celebrate."

Don was stunned. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Blue eyes filled with emotions that found no outlet, but Mac only smiled more. His hand found the place of the scar and he rested his palm over it.

"Thanks," Flack finally managed.

"I love you, Don. Never doubt it," Mac spoke firmly, looking into the blue eyes. "I love you and I want you in my life."

"Mac… I'm not sure…"

"But I am. I'm sure. I want you," he repeated, then laughed weakly. "I'm really not good at this. Claire would so kick my ass, but since she isn't, Stella took over that part."

"Stella?" Flack stuttered.

"What I feel for you, Don, is a lot. And I want this between us. I'm not looking for a buddy fuck. I'm looking for a partner."

Don's disbelief was rising. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Why do you doubt it?"

Flack didn't answer, probably couldn't. There was so much visible in the young face, Mac wished he could put into words what he felt. It was inadequate and he felt inadequate.

Two emotionally suppressed people, he thought. What a great way to start a relationship.

Don took the key out of the box, still not answering, pushed it into the pocket of his pants, and placed the box on the table. He then stepped very close to Mac and leaned down for a kiss. Taylor let him, kissed back, not forcing an answer out of the other man. Fingers started to unbutton his shirt and slid underneath, over the t-shirt, seeking the hem, and finding it.

The 'conversation' was taken to the bedroom next and Mac didn't mind. Not at all. Not when Flack arched into his touches, cried out softly as he pushed into him, and moaned his name when he finally came.

They lay together, enjoying the warmth and afterglow of the high, and Don stroked over Mac's side.

"Love you," the younger man murmured.

Mac felt a rush pass through him that had nothing of the sexual electricity to it. It was an emotional rush and it made his stomach flutter. He ran his fingers through the short, black strands in a loving pattern.

No, they weren't good at talking, but maybe he could learn to show his lover just how much he meant to him, how badly he wanted him in his life.

* * *

Stella gave Mac a close, inspecting look when he came to work the next day, and he tried to play it cool. It didn't work, of course. With Stella it never did.

"So?" she poked when they were alone, sitting on the corner of his desk.

He didn't jump for the bait, just gave her an innocent look.

"Oh Mac, don't play shy. You talked?"

"Kinda."

"Kinda as in… the Mac Taylor way of talking?" She frowned. "It's a miracle you ever got married."

"I'm not asking for his hand in marriage, Stella."

"No, you need to finally get your feelings cleared up."

"I know what I feel."

"Does he?"

Mac was silent for a moment, then nodded.

"Sure? Did he tell you in so many words?"

"Stella…"

"Mac, this isn't a game."

"No, it isn't. And he knows."

Stella's eyes were on him, boring into his soul. "He does," she only repeated.

Mac nodded.

"What did you do, Mac?"

"I… gave him a key."

Stella frowned. "A key?"

Taylor shrugged. "To my apartment."

That had her stop. Then her eyes lit up and the smile was open and warm. "You did, hm?"

"Yeah."

"Such a romantic." Stella walked over to him and briefly squeezed one shoulder. "Well done, Detective Taylor. Men can learn." And then she was out the lab.

Mac's amused smile followed her.

* * *

Don had spent a rather slow day thinking about the last night. His fingers found the key in his pocket, amazed at what Mac had given him. He was very much aware of the meaning of the key, and it had floored him. His doubts were still there, but they were growing weaker.

Mac Taylor was a highly decorated man, a career man, someone who didn't need to turn to a colleague for sex. He could have everyone he wanted. Women liked him, and for a while Don had suspected that there was more between him and Stella, but that idea had quickly died. Stella and Mac were very good friends, platonic friends. She was like his sister, his best friend, and if there had been something more, it had never changed them, had never showed.

So why had Mac chosen him, Don Flack, to share his bed?

The first time had been pain and desperation and emotional turmoil seeking an outlet. It had been a man mourning the loss of his wife and needing this to get a handle on his emotions. It had been wild and clumsy and unrefined, and it had left them sweaty and satisfied. Mac had left not long after the climax.

He had come back. Again and again. They had sought each other out, had enjoyed the wild ride, and that was it. When the whole fiasco around Gavin Moran had taken Flack down, Mac had been there and he had eased the pain.

Mindless sex. Emotions running rampant, letting go, just feeling, never thinking, and not looking back. Or ahead.

That had been their relationship.

Don Flack had been release.

So why… why had it changed? And when?

He looked at the key again.

The bomb and Lessing had changed a lot. For Mac at least. Don had started to fall for the older man long before that, but he had never held any hope that it could be returned. Now… now it was five months and they were together. And Mac had given him the key to his place.

He drew a deep breath and put the key away, concentrating on writing up a report from a past case. Sometimes he wished he could talk to someone, but he knew he would never be able to get out what he felt. It wasn't how he had been raised. Emotions were a difficult topic and the discovery that he loved Mac Taylor had had him reeling for weeks at the time. Now he had made a new discovery and it frightened him even more.

Mac truly wanted this, wanted him – him! - in his life.

* * *

Mac walked into the ME's office and found Sid dictating his findings into the microphone. The doctor stopped when Taylor entered and alert eyes fixed on him.

"Can I help you, Detective?"

There was no case waiting here, no body to autopsy, no findings to discuss. Mac looked around the empty room, then met the sharp eyes.

"I came to apologize," he said quietly. "I'm sorry I asked. I didn't know you weren't working any more."

Sid didn't reply. He just gazed at him over the rims of his glasses, expression unreadable. Mac held that gaze, then nodded once and turned to go.

"Detective Taylor?"

Mac stopped. Sid had straightened and taken off the glasses. There was a distance between them, a safe distance, but still Mac felt like he was under close scrutiny. Hammerback was a healer and he must have been good, still was, from what Mac had read in his file. The man had spent a long time working in hospitals, alternating between extremes, the ER and the morgue. He had the necessary background, the abilities, and he had turned his back on helping the sick.

"Let's have a beer," Sid said.

Taylor smiled and nodded again.

"Shift ends at six," Hammerback only added, then went back to work.

* * *

Mac had chosen his favorite place, a small bar that was rarely frequented by law enforcement. He didn't really want to meet anyone he knew, have chats with former colleagues or old friends. Here he was known, too, but it was more private. It was where he came to think, to be alone, or to share a beer in quiet.

Sid looked around, nodding his agreement to the place, and they chose a nice little booth. Mac ordered a beer, as did Sid, and when they had their drinks, the doctor shot him a smile.

"You're curious. Ask."

"You're a healer."

"That's not a question. That's something you know already. You saw it the moment we met."

"Yes. Curse of being a Seeker."

"It's a gift."

Mac regarded him closely. "So is your ability. But you no longer work as a healer."

Sid was quiet, then nodded. "I'm not."

"Why?" Mac asked the important question.

There was a long silence and Hammerback was turning the almost full glass of beer around between his fingers. Finally he sighed and reached into his pocket, taking out his wallet. He picked something out and pushed it over to Mac.

It was a photograph, at least ten years old, Mac assumed, and it showed a beautiful woman with long, raven-black hair, holding a little girl with blue eyes on her lap. Both were smiling, the little girl waving into the camera.

“My wife and daughter.”

Mac gave the photo an even closer look. The woman looked Native American, and she was maybe in her mid-thirties. The girl was probably five or six.

“Your file said you’re a widower.”

Brows rose. “Trust you to take a look,” Hammerback said, but there was no anger directed at him. “As says yours.”

“What happened?”

“My daughter died when she was six. This photo was taken before she fell ill. And before you ask, of course I did everything that was in my powers. Everything and more, if I could. But sometimes everything is not enough. It was genetic, they said, and it killed her. I watched my wife wither away after her death. I…“

Hammerback inhaled deeply and Mac thought he could see the doctor’s shoulders slump with guilt.

“I saw it, Mac. Saw how it ate her, how she suffered, and again I tried to help. But they need to want the help to actually do any good, you know? One day I came home early and found her in the bathtub. She had slit her wrists with my scalpels. I nearly killed myself when I tried to…”

He stopped again and Mac gave him the time to collect himself, to work through a pain the other man only understood too well. He hadn't lost his wife to suicide, but he had lost her as well. Not through an illness, but through an act of terrorism.

"Healers have their limits," Sid finally said, voice far away, eyes on the table top. "We work with energy lines, we unknot those that are too tangled up in our patients' bodies to be healthy any more, we sometimes build bypasses, we assist cells in reproducing to help the body heal, we work with what we have and sometimes we have to pour parts of ourselves into this process. They always told me how strong I was, how powerful, and I have these abilities, Mac. I am that strong. But no strength in the world could save her. She was already so close to death… I poured everything I had into her but it kept leaking out faster then I could work. I went beyond my safe limits. I wanted her back…"

Hands clenched around the glass and Mac briefly closed his eyes in sympathy.

"She died in my arms. I had her blood on my hands."

"I'm sorry," Mac murmured, aware how empty it sounded. As empty as the words spoken to him by the well-meaning friends who had given him their condolences after Claire's death.

"It's been ten years," Hammerback said. "After that, I told them never to call on me again. I won't turn my back on an emergency on my door step, but I don't do appointments any more."

Mac nodded his acceptance of this decision. "It's a hard call to make," he only remarked.

"It was easier than you think, Mac. A lot easier than you think."

"So now you work with dead people?"

Sid smiled wryly. "It's quiet."

Mac mirrored that smile. He understood. People didn't die here; they were already deceased. There was no pressure to save a life.

For a while, they just drank their beer, each man lost in his own thoughts. Finally Sid met his eyes and there was a curious expression in them.

"Does he know?" Hammerback wanted to know.

Mac was confused by the question, then realized what the ME wanted to know.

"He does. Flack is an ally."

"Ah, that explains it."

Taylor raised an eyebrow. "It does?"

It got him a smirk. "You trust him, Mac."

"I trust Stella and she doesn't know."

"Did your wife know?"

He stopped, then nodded slowly. Sid smirked more, his eyes sparkling. Mac had never realized the parallels. He had never thought about it in any way. Claire hadn't been an ally and despite her knowledge, she had never become active in any way. Mac's paranormal status didn't call upon much action. He was a passive paranormal when it came to his abilities and few called on him to help finding out what he or she was.

"You trust Detective Flack, which is good," Sid went on. "He needs your help, Mac. What I said about his aura still rings true. He is healing, but there are too many large splotches of gray in what should be healthy and whole."

"I'm working on it, Doc."

Sid grinned. "I bet you are."

Mac frowned, fighting the blush that wanted to creep up his neck. The healer just smiled more.

"His scars are not only on the outside. I can't help but notice," Hammerback added. "It's in my nature, like it is in yours. What happened to him was damaging and he needs time and you to heal, Mac."

Taylor nodded slowly. He emptied his beer and mused about a second one, then decided against it. Sid was already calling the waitress.

When they left, Mac turned to the ME. "What you told me tonight is in confidence."

Hammerback nodded. "I didn't expect any less."

They parted ways and Mac's mind was spinning its wheels as he hailed a cab and went home.

* * *

It had been a week since the anniversary gift and Mac growing more and more nervous about the lack of… reaction from his lover. Of course, there were the cases that interrupted any normal day, and Flack was working late on two nights, spending those at home. Mac refused to get baited into going to Flack's home, so he waited, each evening, to hear a key turn in the lock and for his lover to finally appear in Taylor's apartment.

It was after this week that it finally happened.

Someone knocked on the door.

Mac frowned and got up from the couch.

Another knock, then Don's voice.

"Open up! It's me."

"You got a key," Mac told the taller man as he opened the door and then blinked in surprise.

Flack pushed past him, arms full of grocery bags. "Yeah, but I don't have a hand free."

"How did you push the elevator buttons?"

Don grinned. "There's this nice lady from the floor above. She helped out."

Mac shook his head, amused, then directed his lover toward the kitchen where the groceries were dumped. He peeked into one of the bags and found salad and something that looked suspiciously like oven potatoes.

"You didn't have to bring food. My fridge is full," he pointed out.

"How should I know? I've never been here before." Blue eyes twinkled, then started to roam around the apartment.

Flack walked away from the kitchen and started to inspect the place. Mac let him, almost laughing at the way Don was going through things. Like securing a crime scene, he thought. Each room was looked at and when Don turned from his last inspection, Mac leaned in the door.

"Satisfied?"

"Yeah, looks good. Now, you hungry?"

"Sure. What's on the menu?"

"Steak, potatoes and salad. Hope you're really hungry."

Mac caught the slender man before he could make it to the kitchen and took his mouth in a kiss. "Very," he murmured. "Very hungry."

Don chuckled, answering the nipping lips. "Good. Let's start the oven then."

Taylor let him go, smiling to himself. It was strange to have Don here, but it also felt… right. It felt good.

He watched Flack prepare the steaks and set the table when his lover signaled him it was about time to do so.

"I could get used to this," he remarked quietly as he peeled the baked potato out of its aluminum foil.

"Hey, it's not the first time I made steaks," Flack protested.

"But it's the first time you made them here."

That had Don stop, and the blue eyes held a strange expression. Mac only smiled slightly as his lover went back to his potatoes.

Yes, he could get used to this again – to someone sharing his home.

It was over dinner that he breached the topic of the therapy sessions, and as not otherwise expected, Don's face closed off and he seemed to physically distance himself from Mac without even moving a muscle.

"I'm fine," he only said. "I don't need this."

"You do," Mac told him quite openly, not beating around the bush. "Hell, I'd need them if I had gone through something like this."

"You have," Don pointed out.

"Yeah, and I went to see someone. Sometimes I still go and talk to her. She's good. And she just listens."

Blue eyes stared at him in disbelief. Mac smiled.

"Don, it's not a weakness to seek psychological help. You did the required number of sessions to get back into the field, but your mind isn't that easily appeased. You still have nightmares, right?"

The younger man looked down at his food, shoving potato around the plate.

"I know I have bad dreams. I had them after the Pyre case. Just looking at the office, seeing the victim, and then seeing you again…" Mac's eyes were intense, capturing Don's, and not letting go. "I had my hands inside you, keeping you alive, Don. You were unconscious, but your body remembers. Suppressing your memories will only make them blow up in your face later on."

"Talking about it won't help."

Mac gave him a wry smile. "Look where not talking led us," he said simply. "I told you I love you, but I never told you again. We never talked."

Flack grimaced a little. They both weren't talkers. Never had been. Flippant remarks, sarcasm in small doses, taking life in a stride and with black humor, trying to survive in their job while seeing what they did every day… something had had to give.

"Just give it a try," Mac said softly.

"Yeah, well, maybe…"

"Don, it's your choice. I'm not forcing you to."

"I know," was the quiet reply.

They ate the rest of dinner in silence. As Flack removed the dishes. Mac followed him into the kitchen where he started the coffee, then reached for his lover. Don let himself be pulled into the embrace willingly, and he answered the gentle kiss as tenderly as Mac gave it.

"I want you whole," Mac told him. "I want you healthy."

"I know," was all his lover repeated, then just wrapped his arms around the sturdier man, kissing him once more.

Mac let it happen, didn't think about it any more as he enjoyed the contact, and when they snuggled together on the couch, he played with the short, black hair, drawing little noises of appreciation.

He wanted Don to be whole. Very much whole, and very much his. But like Mac Taylor, Don Flack was a stubborn, hard-headed and independent man.

Damn, they were too much alike, he thought again.

* * *

Don woke up to the feeling of being alone in the room. There was no sound aside from what made it through the walls and closed window from the streets, and that was rather muted. The sun hadn't really risen yet and a glance told him it was only six in the morning. He lay back down with a soft groan, an arm across his eyes.

It felt strange to wake up somewhere else than his own bed. It had been years since he had spent the night in a stranger's bed, getting up in the morning and leaving after a few meaningless words and a kiss. Breakfast hadn’t been the case in his one night stands. Ever since he and Mac had gotten together for mutual relief he hadn't turned to anyone else.

And all encounters had happened in Flack's bedroom.

Don removed the arm and gazed at the ceiling, then let his eyes wander around the bedroom. Like in the living room there were framed music prints, a poster from a tour or a cover from a rare LP or single. The living room also held a rather nifty stereo set with state of the art loudspeakers and some fancy additions, and the guitars. The bedroom was bare of those accessories.

He got up and shot the empty spot beside him a mournful look. Mac had the tendency to go out for a run and while he appreciated the shape his lover was in, he regretted that they hadn't woken up together.

Don took a shower, dressed in a pair of jeans and a rather ratty old looking t-shirt he had brought along in his overnight bag, and went to make coffee. He was just through his first cup when Mac came in, smiling a greeting at him. He was sweaty, hair plastered to his head, and the shirt was stained, but for some reason Don thought he was the sexiest man he had ever seen.

"Good morning," Taylor said and was about to walk by when Flack grabbed him and drew him into a kiss.

"Morning," he drawled.

"Don, I need a shower."

"Hm, yeah." He kissed him again.

"Don…"

"Don't care. Missed you when I woke up."

Mac chuckled. "Next time I'll wake you. You can join me then."

"Don't you dare."

He released him and Mac walked into the bathroom, already pulling his t-shirt off. Don smiled in appreciation.

While Mac was in the shower, Don walked through the living room, inspecting it more closely than the night before. Taylor's love for music was ever-present in the LP collections, the CDs, the poster prints on the walls, and his guitars. Don had heard him play a few times. There were photographs of Mac with people from a band, with singers and others musicians, and there was one with his wife. Mac, Claire and someone with a guitar. They looked happy.

Don sipped at his coffee and turned away, almost getting a heart attack when he discovered Mac behind him.

"Jeesus, Taylor, wear a bell around your neck!" he exclaimed.

Mac chuckled. "Losing your touch, detective?"

He gave his lover a brief glare. Mac looked freshly showered and had dressed in leisurely clothes. Now he looked past Don, eyes on the photograph, but Flack refused to say anything.

"It was the Monterey Jazz Festival," Mac only said. "A good friend of mine played."

Don only nodded. Taylor stepped closer, one hand coming to rest on his stomach, the palm warm and familiar.

"Breakfast?" he asked softly.

Don shrugged. "I'm not much of a breakfast cook."

"Neither am I. I know a nice little coffee shop, though."

The palm rubbed over his stomach, his side, and Don felt it slide around to his back, pulling him closer to Mac. Taylor caught his lips, murmuring, "I love you."

Flack closed his eyes, enjoying the close contact of a freshly showered Mac Taylor, nuzzling one temple.

"I know," he murmured.

"Do you?"

He gave his lover a smile. "I don't know why you do, but I know."

Mac was silent, gazing at him with that perfect Poker face of his. A small smile started to play around his lips, reflected in the blue eyes.

"You are the most handsome guy in the PD, Flack," he answered playfully, running his palms over the lean form.

"Uh-huh." Don felt something shiver through him and it wasn't connected to the hands caressing him.

"And you're a lot more," Mac added. "For me. I'm not a superficial person, Don. This isn't solely about what you are, who you are, what you look like. It's all."

"Mac…"

He didn't know how to say it, how to ask this question. He was younger than Mac, he was a cop from a career cop family. Mac was a different kind of career horse. He had served this country in various ways, as a Marine, as a cop, had made it to Detective, had changed into the criminalistics lab, had climbed the ladder again and had taken charge of the lab. What was Don to him in that career? It wasn't that association with Don Flack gave Mac another push. He was at the top, might make it even higher one day – and where was he in that equation?

Mac silenced him with a kiss, pushing those worries into the background again.

They were truly bad at talking things out. Don didn't care at the moment. He closed his eyes, enjoyed the languid kiss, and when Mac let go of his lips, he smiled slightly.

"Breakfast now?" Mac offered again.

"Sounds good."  
   
 

It was eight a.m. when they left the apartment for the coffee shop. Part of Don felt a lot more at peace than before.

* * *

Ever since the shared beer, Sid had taken to keeping a closer eye on Mac Taylor and Don Flack. When the young detective had paid him a visit in the morgue together with Danny Messer because of their latest case, Sid had briefly scanned the aura. It pleased him to see signs of healing gray spots. The scar was still a distortion and it would remain so until Don's body had adjusted to the violently torn and scarred-over flesh. There was more life in Flack, more energy now, and it had the healer nod to himself.

Things were getting better. It would need time and patience, but it would work itself out.

He was surprised when Taylor dropped by once again, outside work so to speak. Sid looked up from the body of a homeless woman found in the gutter. She was already washed clean and he was going over it with the same accuracy he gave all those brought into his morgue.

"Do you like jazz?” Mac asked without preamble.

Hammerback glanced over his glasses. “Every now and then, sure.”

“Next Wednesday.”

He pushed the card of the club over and the ME took it. 'Cozy's' it said, a jazz club. He regarded Mac quizzically.

"If you want to unwind," Mac only said with a fine smile. "Good music on Wednesdays."

And then he had walked away again, leaving Hammerback mystified. He pocketed the card, not yet sure if he would take the criminalist up on his offer, and turned back to the homeless woman.

*

Mac had made the decision to pay Sid a visit out of the blue. He had been granted a look into Hammerback’s life – past and present – and it reminded him too much of his own. Sure, Sid Hammerback could bore people to tears with his stories sometimes, though Mac doubted they were all fake, but he recognized an obfuscation when he was confronted with one. Hammerback wasn’t the always joyful, cracking a joke or a wise comment at any time guy he presented to the world. The man had seen a lot in his time, too, and for a healer to turn away from the world and the living it had to be very much. The death of loved ones could do that to a man, especially when being forced to watch it.

Sometimes Mac wished he had been given more time with his wife, that he had been given the opportunity to talk to her, to tell her… but Hammerback had, and what had it done to the man?  
Sometimes everything is not enough, he had said.

Hammerback had continued living, as had Mac. And just like him he had buried himself into his work. Mac had had friends and colleagues who had been too stubborn to take no for an answer and had pulled him out of his own pit, inch by inch.  
Time to give someone else what he had been given.

* * *

Cozy's was a small jazz bar in SoHo. It was located in the basement of a music shop/coffee bar/bookshop combo. The music could be heard out on the street when you walked by, though not too loudly. Sid descended the stairs into the club and paid a small entrance fee that covered his first beer or soda, too. The bar probably held about fifty people, had multiple tables with two to four chairs, a lamp with a red shade on each, a bar with stools in front of them, and two long tables at one side of the room that easily held eight to ten people.

One of those tables was occupied by a group of criminalists he knew very well.

"Sid!" Stella waved at him as he came closer and he smiled. "Hey, nice seeing you here."

She scooted over on the bench and made room for him to squeeze in between her and Lindsay. The latest addition to the CSI team gave him a warm, welcoming smile of her own.

"Never seen you here before, Doc," Danny commented, drinking from his beer.

"It's my first time. I got an invitation." Sid smirked.

"Invitation? From whom?" Lindsay wanted to know.

Sid's eyes traveled to the small stage where Mac Taylor sat on a bar stool, playing the guitar. "Detective Taylor thought it might be a nice way to pass the evening. I thought I'd give it a try."

Hawkes chuckled. "It's a really nice way to pass the time, Sid," he agreed.

Hammerback noticed that Don Flack was suspiciously absent. "It's an almost full crew," he remarked.

"Huh?" Danny mumbled into his glass.

"The whole team. I'm only missing Detective Flack."

"Don's traded shifts with a colleague of his who's about to become a daddy. Wife's having their first baby and Don took pity on him," Danny explained with a grin. "It's lucky all of us are here anyway."

"I'm on call, so I might be beeped," Stella explained. "So far, it's a quiet Wednesday."

Sid nodded and ordered a beer from the waitress who came to inquire if he wanted something to drink. He turned to watch Mac, playing a slow piece with the band, and it was nice music.


End file.
